21gun salute
by Jade Nolan
Summary: Mac, Flack, and a young boy are pinned down by an assault rifle-wielding shooter, and Mac has no time and one chance to get them out. A one-shot for now but can be expanded on if you guys want.


**A/N:** _First off the obligatory... I don't own any of the characters created by CBS. Actually, that's about it. This is just my idea of how the series should end. I don't have anything written about a plotline prior to this, but if you guys like, I could easily come up with an entire "episode" and backtrack as it were and add to this.  
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><p>A bullet zinged off the cinder block just about their heads, and the three of them instinctively ducked even further down, Devin pressing himself even further into Mac's side.<p>

"Mac, he's got us completely pinned down!" he heard Flack yell beside him.

Another round ricocheted off the wall behind them, and analyzing the hole with a speed and instinct beyond conscious thought, Mac followed the bullet's trajectory with his eyes back to its origin. He had the location of the shooter. Mac glanced down at the shaking boy who clung to him in terror, and everything seemed to slow down. He hunched over the boy, covering him protectively as the low stack of cinder blocks they were crouched behind started to disintegrate from the onslaught of the bullets. ESU was never going to make it in time. Devin made a small sound and wrapped his arms even tighter around Mac's waist, jumping at every burst of gunfire. Mac glanced up at the skylight above them and the sun that shone through. There was only one way out of this before they were all killed.

Still keeping Devin's head and upper body tucked under his arm and torso, Mac undid the velcro of his kevlar.

Flack looked over from where he'd squeezed off a couple rounds in an attempt to keep the shooter's own head down at least a little.

"Mac, what the hell are you doing?" he said, firing three more shots over his shoulder.

Mac ignored him, and finished slipping off his vest. He shook Devin slightly, "Devin. Devin!"

The boy peeked up at him.

"I'm going to put this on you, ok?"

Devin nodded, and still staying as close to the floor as possible, Mac slipped the kevlar over Devin's head.

Flack shook his head as he realized what Mac was doing.

"Mac, no!" he protested. But all three shrunk even lower as more than one cinder block entirely disintegrated and showered down on them.

"Don, I know where the shooter's at. I need you to get Devin out."

Flack shook his head, "I won't let you get yourself killed." He looked protestingly at Mac, his mind racing to come up with another solution. But there was none.

"I can't... I can't let you do it, Mac," Flack said, his voice almost breaking and shaking his head, a trapped, almost panicked feeling tightening his chest.

But Mac simply gave him a small, resigned smile before returning his attention to the boy. "Devin? Look at me."

The boy raised his head from where he had it buried in Mac's chest.

"Devin, listen to me very carefully. Detective Flack is going to get you out of here. When he says 'go', you're going to run with him across to that door over there. Okay? You're not going to stop, you're not going to look around. You're going to run with him right across there and out that door. You understand?"

The boy nodded. "What about you? Are you going to come with us?" he asked Mac, his blue eyes full of trust.

"I'll be right behind you," Mac told him.

Flack closed his eyes and hit the back of his head against the wall in helpless frustration. He opened his eyes again, and the two friends looked at each other, both reading the inevitability of the situation in each other's eyes.

Mac drew his gun. "Devin, you ready?" he asked.

The boy nodded.

It was as if Flack was watching the situation unfold on a TV screen, and part of him refused to accept the reality of the situation, and that when it was all over he could take a deep breath and be glad none of it had actually happened. But the flying concrete stinging his face was real, and Mac yelling at him to go was real. He pulled himself together and grabbed Devin.

Mac rolled out from behind the low cover, gun raised in his right hand and firing towards the slightly raised platform where he had managed to locate the shooter. He sprinted across the wide open space of the nearly empty warehouse towards the only other pallet that was the opposite direction of the exit and Flack and Devin. He felt oddly light and unencumbered without any protective gear on, and an odd sense of peace came over him, as if the weight of everything he had carried with him and dealt with and struggled with and shouldered without asking, was lifted.

As the shooter's line of fire shifted to follow Mac, Flack hauled Devin to his feet. "Go, go, go!" he yelled to the boy. The two of them set off at a dead run towards the exit, Flack keeping his arm around Devin's shoulder. The sound of the gunfire behind him echoed and bounced off the concrete and steel walls of the warehouse and deafened him. He could make out sharp bark of the assault rifle of the shooter, and the slightly thinner but deeper sound of Mac's .40 caliber handgun. He willed for the sound of Mac's gun not to stop.

As he and Devin got closer to the door, and the exchange of gunfire continued, Flack started to think that maybe they all really would stand a chance of getting out the whole thing. But then he felt a knife stab straight through his gut as he heard Mac let out a yell, and his gun go silent. It was all Flack could do to not turn and rush back. He closed his eyes and physically forced himself onwards. Devin, hearing Mac's cry as well, slowed and turned his head to look back. Flack pushed the boy onwards, "Go, Devin!"

They crossed the last 25 yards to the exit, practically falling through the door and to safety.

xxxxxx

He was almost to the pallet and cover, when Mac felt the familiar, intense pain of a bullet tear through his left shoulder. He was thrown backwards to the ground, hitting hard against the concrete floor. Pushing back the flood of agony which tried to blanket his brain, he rolled over and managed to half get to his feet. He had to keep moving and get to cover. His left arm hung uselessly at his side, and he could feel blood already soaking his shirt down to his waist. He staggered forward, but another bullet ripped through his right hip. He all but screamed as the joint was almost instantly obliterated and he collapsed to ground. His vision turned fuzzy, and he felt as though the pain had robbed him of the capacity to breath. Somehow he managed to drag himself forward the last couple feet, his gun still gripped in his right hand, leaving a trail of blood behind him.

He rolled over onto his back behind the pallet, gasping for air, and trying to gain some level of control over the all-encompasing sheet of pain tearing through him. He prayed that Flack and Devin had made it out.

Dropping his empty clip on the ground and flinching at the sound of bullets which continued to spat around him, he lay his gun on his stomach and fished out the full magazine he had put in his pocket. Completely unable to use his left arm for anything, he braced the gun upside down on his stomach and pushed the new clip firmly into place. Then using his uninjured hip for leverage, he pulled back the slide and racked a bullet into the chamber. Black spots danced in front of his eyes. But he had more than idea of where the shooter was now. He had actually seen him on his mad dash over.

There was a pause in the shooter's gunfire. Gritting his teeth, Mac rolled slightly to his left just enough to see around the corner of the pallet and obtain a clear visual of the shooter. He fired twice, before having to quickly duck back as returning bullets hailed back down. The agony from the effort of the movement tore through him, and he lay, chest raising rapidly and unevenly, eyes squeezed closed and unable to hold back small sounds of pain.

He could feel his own blood pooling underneath him, and as the black spots refused to blink away, and persistent lightheadedness began to set in, Mac knew he didn't have much time. He gasped as he managed to gain a marginal hold of the pain and shove it behind walls he had long ago been trained to develop. With a tremendous effort and a yell, he pulled himself up to his knee of his uninjured leg. He closed his eyes and focused on nothing but what he had to do. He would get only one chance at this.

xxxxxxx

Flack could hear the distant sirens of backup, but they were still a good two to three minutes away, and Mac didn't have two to three minutes. He set Devin behind a forklift that was sitting only a few yards from the door. "Stay right there," he told him.

Devin nodded. "Where are you going?" he asked.

"To help Detective Taylor," Flack replied. "Those sirens will be here in just a couple minutes. You stay here until they arrive. You hear me?"

The boy nodded again.

Flack got up, and dashed back inside, dread tearing him apart inside on what he might find.

He edged through the door, and into the warehouse once again, looking around to locate both Mac and the shooter. He didn't see Mac anywhere, but the fact that their shooter was still firing his assault rifle, hopefully meant that Mac had managed to get to cover and was still alive. Hugging the shadows, Flack edged closer, eyes peeled. His stomach twisted as he saw the trail of blood Mac had left as he'd dragged himself across the floor. He couldn't see behind the pallet where the blood trail led, and he could only hope that Mac really was still alive behind it.

And then across the open space, on a small raised loading platform, Flack finally caught sight of the shooter. Staying close to the side wall and keeping as low as he could, Flack edged his way to firing distance. Oblivious to his presence, the shooter kept firing towards the pallet where Mac was taking refuge.

xxxxxxxx

Balancing on his good leg and leaning his back against the pallet, cold sweat dripping down his neck and forehead, Mac closed his eyes momentarily and focused. He hefted his gun. The world slowed down again, and the resigned peace he had briefly felt only a few short minutes earlier, quietly and completely filled him. He could finally let go of it all. Claire, smiling and laughing at him as they tried to dunk each into the waves at Lake Michigan, floated across his vision.

"I love you," he whispered.

In one smooth motion he pivoted out from behind the pallet, taking a deep breath and letting it out while raising his gun. His mind completely clear and with singular focus, he fired.

xxxxxx

Flack saw Mac suddenly appear from behind cover. He was drenched in blood. There was a momentary pause as both Mac and the shooter took specific aim at each other. Flack's heart stopped.

Then two shots rang out almost simultaneously. Both men jerked as their bullets made contact with their intended targets, but Flack watched with absolute horror as Mac crumpled to the ground and lay there motionless and completely still. But the uneven distance competition between an assault rifle and a handgun was made entirely evident when the shooter, having only been hit in the forearm by Mac's bullet, vaulted off the loading platform and walked toward the fallen detective to ensure that he was actually dead.

Flack exploded out from behind him, rage that he had hoped never to feel again, filling him.

"YOU FUCKING SON OF A BITCH!" he yelled.

Completely startled, the shooter turned, and Flack, yelling, emptied his clip into the man's chest.

The shooter was dead before he hit the ground.

Shoving his gun back into his holster, Flack rushed over to Mac, who still hadn't moved since collapsing to the ground.

"Mac!" Flack couldn't believe the carnage that had been wrecked on Mac's body. Blood continued to pour relentlessly from his destroyed shoulder, hip and now his stomach right below his rib cage. He was still alive, but his chest rose and fell shallowly and irregularly. He weakly half-choked, half-coughed on blood that Flack could hear bubbling in the back of his throat. "Oh god, Mac!" Flack dropped to the ground next to his best friend who was lying in an ever increasing pool of blood. He yanked his radio off his belt, yelling for medics and an ambulance.

"Mac, you stay with me you hear? Stay with me."

Mac choked again as he was too weak to cough the blood out of his throat. Flack slid one arm under his shoulders and lifted him ever so gently onto his knee, propping his head up, while trying to staunch the flow of blood from the hole in Mac's hip. Mac's face twisted and he let out a strangled cry as the movement, and pressure on his leg, shifted the ends of his shattered joints against other and sent new pain tearing through him. He weakly grasped Flack's arm with his good hand, and forced his eyes open. "Please," he begged with a shake of his head. Every move felt as though he was pushing against a lead sheet that was trying to weigh him down. "You can't stop it," he managed.

Flack shook his head angrily. "I won't let you quit!" he said.

But white-hot spears of pain lanced out in every direction, arching through Mac's entire body, taking what little breath he had, away entirely. He gripped Flack's wrist and met his eyes.

"Please!"

His voice was barely audible, but so intense, it sent chills through Flack, and part of him realized he couldn't deny the horrible inevitable reality. Squeezing his eyes closed and feeling tears run down his face, he lifted his hand off Mac's leg, and grasped his friend's hand tightly. Mac returned his grip, and in his arms Flack could feel Mac's body relax.

"Mac! Don't you give up. Don't you dare give up!" he told him.

But Mac's fingers slowly loosened from around his own, and his eyes closed, his head going limp in the crook of Flack's arm.

Dread, pain, panic, and helplessness all swirled in a twisting morass in Flack's chest. Snatching his radio back up, he screamed into it, "Where are those medics? I NEED THAT GODDAMN AMBULANCE _NOW_!"

As he lay Mac back down, desperately searching for a pulse or signs of breathing, ESU, the medics, Jo, Danny, and the rest of the backup came bursting through the door behind him.

He stood up and slowly backed away as the medics swiftly went to work.

"Don! Don, what the hell happened?" Danny asked, completely stricken at the sight of Mac lying unresponsive in a pool of blood.

Completely overcome, Flack simply shook his head.

"Don?" Jo asked in concern laying a hand on his arm, the horror of the scene in front of them all stamped on her face as well.

But Flack couldn't speak. He simply sank to the ground and let his head fall forward on his knees, his shoulders shaking.

Unable to find a pulse on Mac, one the medics tore open his shirt and began chest compressions on him. Mac's hands bounced ever so slightly and rhythmically in time with the compressions, while the other medic quickly intubated him and started artificial ventilations.

Danny grabbed the back of his head with both hands and turned away. "I can't do this, I can't watch this," he said, his eyes red-rimmed and torn.

Jo didn't even bother to hide the tears that were streaming down her face.

The minutes ticked by without any response.

After what seemed like the umpteenth drug they had administered, one of the medics stood up and fished his phone out of his pocket. Retreating a few steps and turning away, he made what seemed like a very long phone call. Danny saw him slowly nod and jot something on his glove. Replacing his phone in his pocket and turning back around, he shook his head at the remaining medics who were still working on Mac's completely limp form. They sat back slowly and heavily, disconnecting the oxygen and unhooking the cardiac monitor.

Danny rushed forward. "Wait… Wait! What the hell are you doing?" he shouted. "You can't just stop!"

The lead medic who had made the phone call, looked down for a moment before meeting Danny's frantic and furious face. "I'm sorry," he said, his own voice shaking, "There's nothing more we can do. He's gone."

"No," Danny took a couple steps backward. "No no no no no… this is _Mac_ we're talking about. He can't… he can't be…" he was lost for further words, and simply turned and pushed his way past the sea of cops and detectives who had showed up one after the other as word had spread of what had happened. He went back to his car, chest heaving and lungs feeling incapable of filling with air. He leaned his hands against the frame, head down. Then with a yell he hit the window. He hit it again and again until his knuckles bled, and he collapsed on the ground.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxx**

It seemed as if every New York City police officer showed up to pay their respects to their fallen comrade. In his straightforward, unassuming way, Mac Taylor never knew just how much of a legend, inspiration and influence he had been to the younger officers and detectives throughout the department. But he had been. Without him even realizing it, he had been looked up to by more than just a handful. But even if he had been told, he would have brushed it off in embarrassed dismissal. Both a thorn in the side and their biggest asset to his superiors, and with a heart more than big enough to care for all those underneath him, Mac had left a mark on the department that would not be forgotten for a very long time.

Little Lucy Messer stared at the casket in which her godfather rested, and the uniformed Marines which lined it and held a flag taut over top of it. As one of the soldiers lifted a bugle to his lips, and the haunting tones of 'Taps' rang out clear through the hushed crowd, she watched the stone face of the Marine closest to her and then up at her daddy. There were tears rolling down his cheeks. Lucy took a sideways step closer to him and took his hand. She still wasn't sure what 'dead' meant. All she knew was that her Uncle Mac wouldn't be coming to see her anymore. She hugged the bunny that he had given her last week and that she had brought with her, tighter.

The bugle stopped playing, and the Marines on each side of the casket crisply and precisely folded the flag into a small, neat triangle. One of them took it between his hands and approached her. Lucy watched him with big, solemn eyes as he knelt in front of her, leaning forward slightly, and held out the folded flag.

The Marine spoke gently, "On behalf of the President of the United States, the Commandant of the Marine Corps, and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one's service to Country and Corps."

Danny knelt down next to his daughter and placed his hands over hers as he helped her accept the flag from the young Marine. "Thank you," he managed. He still found it hard to believe that Mac had no living next of kin, making Lucy the closest thing to family he had.

The Marine nodded and stood up, rejoining the rest of the honor guard.

"Atte….n_tion_!" their Sergeant called

The Honor Guard snapped to attention.

"Fire right. _Ri…ght_ FACE!"

The Honor Guard pivoted right and brought their rifles to a 45 degree angle.

"Can you hold it, Daddy?" Lucy asked, relinquishing the flag to her father.

Danny nodded, too consumed with emotion to speak. He stood back up and cuffed his eyes, wrapping an arm around Lucy and holding her close.

"Ready…. FIRE!"

Danny flinched at the sharp bark of the rifles and squeezed his eyes closed.

"Ready…. FIRE!"

"Ready…. FIRE!"

On the other side of Lucy, Flack felt as though a part of him died with every sound of the rifles.

As the last echoes of the shots faded, a single bagpiper stepped forward, and the lonely strains of 'Amazing Grace' floated into the silence. On the second time through the song, the entire NYPD Pipes and Drums joined the lone bagpiper, and filled air with a resolute and tragic strength.

Lucy stared at the coffin with the riderless horse behind it, the Marines standing stiffly at attention, the bagpipers, the sea of uniformed officers all around…and back up at her daddy. He was crying again.

Mac Taylor was laid to rest.


End file.
